


our daily bread.

by outpastthemoat



Series: song of songs [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bread Life, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5259188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a morning person.  This is what he does while the sun rises and the people he loves sleep the rest of the deserving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our daily bread.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MajorEnglishEsquire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/gifts).



Castiel is a morning person.  This is what he does while the sun rises and the people he loves sleep the rest of the deserving.

He rises just before dawn and tiptoes through the silent halls, as light spins through cut glass in sunbursts.  Castiel likes the quiet.  Likes the peace.  He likes the way the house breathes, in and out, filled with the presence of his family, the way that all houses do when their walls contain people who are loved deeply and well.  

Castiel loves them deep.  Castiel loves them well.

He wants to take care of this house.  He wants to take care of the people who live inside its rooms.

\--

First he does his morning chores.  Sweeping, mopping, dusting, polishing, washing and rinsing last night’s dishes.  Sorting piles of laundry: The darks, the lights, the delicates.  Judicious application of bleach and detergent and fabric softener, turning on the iron to warm while he loads the dryer.  He takes the dustpan and broom from their place in the kitchen and he sweeps the floors.  First the kitchen.  Then the library.  The war room and the passageways and the marbled floors of the front hall.

You don’t have to, Dean will say, when Castiel mops the floor and scrubs the dinner dishes.  You didn't need to, Sam will protest, when Castiel folds his shirts and irons his pants.

He does.  His hands ache to show them how he cares.  

Don’t work yourself too hard, Dean will tell him, but there is no feeling as restful and wonderful as the feeling of knowing that the rooms of your house are filled with those that you love most, tucked safe and sound against the heartbeat of the hearth, taken care off.  Knowing that the corners of these rooms have been dusted, that the floors have been swept, that the woodwork has been polished until you could see the sun reflected in its surfaces.

He sings his quiet songs as he goes about his work, and when Dean wakes up and begins his sleepy-eyed journey down the hall, he will find Castiel by his voice.  Dean will stop his wandering and take Castiel’s face between his palms and kiss him on the cheek, and Castiel will grumble and turn away his face just so Dean will laugh and whisper so softly in his ear, You crank, you grouch, you grump, you little shit. You can't fool me.  You're a morning person.

\--

When the chores are finished, Castiel bakes bread.

It’s hard work keeping three grown men fed, three men who walk around in heavy boots and the weight of the world on their shoulders.  They are always hungry.  They can eat through a box of cereal in a day, they can work their way through every can of soup in their pantry and every frozen pizza in the deep freezer and still feel empty.

Sourdough and pumpernickel, brioche for sandwiches and rolls for dinner.  He tries to remember their favorites.  Sam likes honey wheat bread, dense and thick and crumbly, Dean likes loaves of white bread with the crusts cut off.  

Sam eats his crusts.  “They’re the best part,” he tells Cas.  Dean pushes his to the edge of his plate and make faces of disgust.  It doesn’t bother Castiel.  He’ll pick the crusts off the edge of Dean’s plate and eat them himself.

He likes how the dough feels in his hands.  How basic.  How fundamental.  How many thousands of family have depended on bread through the ages, he wonders, how many have survived off bread alone.  How many mothers and father and children have harvested the grain, worked the dough, spent hours watching it rise.  He pinches off his sourdough starter and thinks about Jesus feeding the masses and wonders how many loaves he can make out from this one small pinch of starter, how many times he will feed Sam and Dean with just this small amount.   

He pulls at the dough, shaping it with his hands.  He has no grace, nothing left to burn inside, but he hopes he still has something left to offer.  He hopes to give a little piece of himself with every loaf.

\--

Sometimes when they sit down for a meal together, Sam will bow his head and say one of those short, quiet prayers that Castiel can no longer hear.  

But Dean says his prayers aloud these days.  Sometimes he breathes them into Castiel’s ear late at night as they crawl into their bed.  Sometimes he says them over a plate of turkey on rye.

“Thank God for Cas,” Dean will say.  “He keeps us from starving.”

Dean grins like it's just a joke, but Castiel can hear that he means every word.

Under the table, Dean takes his hand.

Dean says, quieter.  “Don't know what we'd do without him,” and Castiel smiles.

“I do what I can,” Castiel says.

He always does.

**Author's Note:**

> Give us this day our daily bread. Matthew 6:11


End file.
